


Sleep is my lover, now

by kittiwake



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (it is somnophilia after all), Anal Sex, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dubious Consent, M/M, Somnophilia, peter's self-indulgent stream of consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29376084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittiwake/pseuds/kittiwake
Summary: Sleep-deprived as he is, when Elias finally quiets the rush of incoming information enough to put himself to rest, he sleeps deeply. Motionless, almost, curled under the covers of his king-size bed, alone in a large and empty house, nothing but the moonlight spilling through his window encroaching upon his snatched moments of peace.Most nights, anyway.Peter returns home from a long trip and pays his sometime-husband a visit.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	Sleep is my lover, now

**Author's Note:**

> I've warned for dubious consent on the basis that it's somnophilia but it's left deliberately vague in the body of the text whether Elias is fully aware of what's happening, or totally unaware, or anything in between - on that basis it's something of a choose your own adventure!

Contrary to popular belief (and rumours courtesy of one T Stoker), Elias does - upon occasion - leave his Institute. It amuses him that certain parties still find this to be surprising, as if he were prone to sleeping in his office chair, or perhaps hanging like a bat from the rafters. Granted it would be efficient, but murder on his spine - even a newer, younger model. 

He has a house both for the sake of appearances, and the practicalities of having easy access to a bed. Maintaining the same house since the 19th century has required some finagling given the paper trails of transferring deeds from seemingly unrelated parties, but he’s managed it well enough, and he has to admit that he has a fondness for what he thinks of as _home_. 

Home is such a funny little concept. 

Home is where the heart is. 

For the Eye, of course, that means the belly of the tunnels under the Institute where his shell of a body still resides, propped up on a chair. In the beginning days after his first transfer he’d exerted some efforts towards keeping the chamber clean and impressive and free of dust, of combing the hair of his old body even as it flaked away against his fingers. Vanity, really. But after six months it was apparent that there was nothing left to be vain about—his body didn’t rot, but it shrivelled, collapsing in upon itself. Jonah resigned himself to keeping his attentions for the lungs that breathed and the heart that beat. 

Part of which, of course, is hygiene, sleep, food and so forth. Elias is better at some parts of this than others. Hygiene, of course, is essential, and he returns home at least once each night to wash, to brush his teeth, to change his clothes. Food is pleasurable enough, though he’s satiated more by the Eye than he is any physical sustenance. Sleep—

Well, there’s so much to watch. So much to see. Elias doesn’t think he _dreams_ anymore, not really, not when his mind has so many sights to turn over that he hasn’t consciously noted during his waking hours. Sleep hardly feels like rest at all, these days, and so he lets it be in favour of more interesting pastimes until whichever body he’s wearing is set to collapse under him. Whether it takes two nights, three, four—sooner or later, he returns to his house and sleeps. 

Sleep-deprived as he is, when he finally quiets the rush of incoming information enough to put himself to rest, he sleeps deeply. Motionless, almost, curled under the covers of his king-size bed, alone in a large and empty house, nothing but the moonlight spilling through his window encroaching upon his snatched moments of peace. 

_Most_ nights, anyway. 

Tonight, fog creeps down the streets of Chelsea, coating the tyres of cars like oils and painting their windows with condensation and frost. The air smells salty, nose-stingingly cold, and a pair of boots settles onto the carpet of Elias’ bedroom. 

The boots are attached to a large man still dripping seawater from his heavy coat and his bearded face. He barely glances at the figure in the bed as he sits heavily on a nearby armchair to unlace his boots, tugging at laces grown stiff with ice and salt with large, calloused fingers. 

“No, please,” he murmurs after a few moments, his voice soft and low in the thick silence of the room, “don’t get up.” His chuckle as he laughs at his own joke sounds like the floorboards creaking, heavy and laboured, as if his throat isn’t quite used to bending to speech. “Over a year away and this is the welcome you’ve laid out, is it? Dear me, Elias.” 

Peter smiles, shrugging his coat off and kicking his boots to the side before standing up, not making any particular effort to be _too_ quiet. Elias is a heavy sleeper, he knows. And whilst he might not perhaps enjoy the fact that he _has_ that particular snippet of knowledge, he might as well take advantage of it while he has the opportunity. 

Elias is sleeping on his side tonight, one hand fisted in the duvet, the other under slung under his pillow. He’s still—barely breathing—but under his closed eyelids Peter can see his eyeballs racing around, chasing whatever dreams or memories the Watcher feeds him in the small hours of the morning. If Peter leans close enough he can smell the faintest hint of the moisturiser Elias uses before bed, the sandalwood in his soap, all clean and fresh. It would be a crime not to dirty him up just a little bit before morning. 

For all of his bulk Peter can move lightly when he wants to, and when he sits on the bed he barely makes an indentation, superimposed like bad photoshop over the blankets. There’s frost on the carpet, now, and Elias shivers in his sleep, shifting and nuzzling into the pillow. 

“Yes, yes. Very sweet,” Peter tuts, reaching across the bed to flip up one corner of the duvet and reveal Elias’ feet, the hem of his pyjama bottoms. “Quite a show of innocent helplessness you put on even when you’re _unconscious_. Very conscientious of you.” As if he doesn’t know exactly how dangerous Elias is. This game is a risky one—if Elias wakes, Peter runs the very real risk of being pinned down and _Seen_ , of Elias recouping his lost night of sleep in the form of memories and statements straight from Peter’s skull, scraping down the walls of it like he’s removing old paint. 

Best not to wake him, then, Peter reasons. Best to be gentle. Up the duvet comes until Peter can tuck it neatly around Elias’ shoulders and his torso, leaving his lower half exposed to the moonlight and the cold and Peter’s wandering eyes. 

_Silk_ pyjamas. Sometimes Peter thinks that Elias exerts so much energy in being a cliché he’s quite forgotten what appearances he’s playing at, and which indulgences are actually _his_ now. Peter rubs the hem of one leg between his finger and thumb, wondering whether it might be wise to use them to bind Elias’ wrists. Such binds wouldn’t hold him long, not with slippery fabric like this, but it would give him the opportunity of a quick getaway should he need it. 

Of course to tie Elias’ wrists he’d need to have them in hand, and to do that he’d have to pull one arm from beneath the pillow. Moving Elias’ head isn’t a gamble he much feels like taking. Peter sighs, letting his fingertips travel up from Elias’ ankle bone to the back of his knee, feeling the slide of silk against his hand. “What a pretty little present you make,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Elias always makes a lot of how much Peter likes the sound of his own voice; he’s a hypocrite, of course, him of all people, but it’s true enough. Peter likes the way his voice bounces off of empty walls, the gaping space where a response should be like the hole left by a missing tooth, incapable to keep from prodding at. It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t linger long where Elias is concerned. The man’s incapable of not having the last word. 

After months at sea it’s odd feeling a plush mattress underneath him, the soft air of a house rather than the harsh, ice-studded gale that so often blows at sea. It’s odder still to curl his fingers in Elias’ pyjamas and gently work them down from his hips, feeling the warmth of his skin against the backs of Peter’s knuckles. Elias shifts minutely, rolling onto his front with the momentum of it, legs falling a little akimbo. 

Not so elegant now. Peter considers taking off Elias’ shirt as well, considers laying his lips at the space where Elias’ neck meets his shoulder or scraping a nail down his spine. But there’s a lovely vulnerability in having him like this, top half covered, bottom half delightfully bare. Peter settles a palm at Elias’ thigh and nudges it sideways, pushing his legs a little further apart with slow and easy motions. When Elias next moves Peter shushes him, curling a broad hand around the sharp jut of his hip and rubbing a few circles with his thumb. Elias settles. Peter wonders whether he’s remembering the presence of a past lover—a current lover, even. 

There’s no expectation of fidelity in their marriage, or in their not-marriage, but they’re both dedicated to too many other causes to spend much time chasing after temporary partners. There’s a gloriously lonely sting in a one-night stand, of course, and Peter would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the occasional dalliance, but more often than not he finds himself circling back to Elias. As for Elias, well. Peter highly doubts he spends enough time outside of his office to court anybody. Still, he’s surprised him in the past. Peter knows better, these days, than to make the mistake of thinking Elias is predictable. 

He’s surprised again a few seconds later when he lets his hand wander from Elias’ hip to his backside, pulling gently to open him a little and raising his eyebrows when something catches the dim light from beyond the curtains. It’s glass, smooth and heavy, sitting neatly in the cradle of Elias’ body. A plug, then, holding him open. For the first time, Peter hesitates. 

He’d made no mention of his homecoming—no (he grimaces) his _visit_ —to Elias. He’s come almost straight from port. There’s simply no way of Elias having known he’d come here, do _this_ , to have prepared so nicely for him. And Elias has all sorts of strange little indulgences. Perhaps this is what he likes to do some nights, holding himself stretched and open to make his mornings faster. Very efficient. Perhaps this is the aftermath of an indulgent evening spent alone and Elias is simply looking to preserve the ache and the stretch a little longer. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy the sensation of being left empty. Perhaps he's spent a long night in the bath working himself open to relieve a little of the stress he carries with him, eyes closed and the names of long-gone lovers on his lips.

Peter lets his fingers play around the edge of Elias’ hole, smooth skin stretched taut, still a little shiny with whatever lubricant he’s used to get the plug in. The plug is warm now, body-warm, but it would have been cold when Elias worked it into himself. Despite himself Peter draws in a breath at the thought of the sounds Elias would have made—a hiss at the stretch, a low groan of satisfaction. A purr. He shifts on the bed, adjusting himself in his trousers and considering the scene askance. 

It changes the game, slightly, if there’s a chance that Elias knew he was coming. It wrongfoots him, makes him simply a fulfilment of Elias’ intentions, but then again—Peter has never been a man to look a gift-horse in the arse, as it were. The fact is, Elias is here and stretched and ready for him. It would be a shame to waste it. 

Peter purses his lips, turning his attention instead to the rest of Elias, the spread of his legs, the shadow of his cock squashed soft and sleepy under the long line of his body. Peter’s fingers trace the line from Elias’ hole down over his perineum, rolling his balls under his palm and listening for any change in his breathing, any hitch to suggest that he might, in fact, be awake. Nothing but silence. Elias’ shoulders are loose and relaxed, his face peaceful but for the constant shifting of his eyes. 

Peter remembers leaving one night after Elias had fallen asleep to see him watching with a blank and wide-eyed stare. Fast asleep, he’d been, and still _staring_. Downright unnerving. It doesn’t do to be intimidated by one’s paramours, and Peter has it as a point of pride not to be intimidated by Elias Bouchard no matter how many eyes he rips out, but—well, he has to admit that he’s glad his eyes are closed tonight. 

Well. He doesn’t have all night, but this is something that deserves to be indulged in properly. Peter sets his palm at Elias’ hips, reaching for a pillow to work underneath them and prop him up just a little, pulling Elias’ cock gently back between his legs so he can reach that too and give it a few easy strokes. Still no change in his breathing, not even when Peter dips his head and runs his tongue over the head, taking it into his mouth so he can feel it grow plumper against the insides of his cheeks, slow and easy. He tastes of soap, of salt, clean and fresh, and Peter reaches down with one hand to undo his own belt, unable to keep him from giving himself a few strokes while Elias’ hardens underneath him. 

He’d planned to press Elias’ thighs together and fuck in between those rather than go through the rigmarole of stretching him properly, but he’s not so wedded to his intentions that he can’t countenance a change of plans. He’s an opportunist, after all, at heart. It’s one of the few things that they have in common. Peter pulls away and watches as Elias shifts against the bed, no doubt reacting to the sudden cool of the air against his spit-slick cock. 

“Hush,” Peter whispers, and Elias stills again, breathing returning to its previous, deep, even rhythm. Feigned or not, Peter finds he doesn’t really mind. Whether it’s authentic or just a well-made lie, the effect is the same. Bolder, now, he takes hold of the end of the plug and begins to work it from Elias, replaced soon enough by two fingers swiftly moistened by his tongue. They sink into Elias like butter, silken, effortless. Peter almost misses the resistance. 

“You always did set too much store by efficiency,” he remarks, his voice a little warmer now that his throat is starting to loosen up, now that the blood is rushing through his veins and defrosting all of the ice that’s formed away at sea. It’s a little rougher, too, thick with arousal as he scissors his fingers, adds a third, sets up an easy rocking rhythm that pushes Elias’ hips against the pillow. It’s the gentlest he’s been with Elias since he can remember. Gentle enough that Peter feels almost conflicted. 

What’s lonelier, really? A bitemark on one’s thighs to prove that someone was there? Or the absence, to make one doubt it? Failing that, what’s more satisfying? Failing _that_ , which one will irritate Elias more? Ah, the considerations of marriage—compromise everywhere. Between himself and his family, himself and his god, himself and his sometime-husband. There’s only so many ways he can be pulled before he has to fall back on hedonism, and Peter wonders sometimes whether that isn’t precisely what Elias relies upon. 

But he doesn’t like to disappoint. The skin of Elias’ thighs is soft and smooth under his teeth, warm and giving where Peter applies a little more pressure and sucks, pulling blood to the surface without biting down hard enough to risk breaking the skin. Pain will wake Elias up, but this—this just makes him sigh and press his face more firmly into the pillow, hips still rocking unconsciously against the bed. 

Not much time left. Peter knows better than to push his luck too far, much as he might like to spend a pleasant while fingering Elias open, pressing against his insides so he wakes stretched and open and _empty_ , full of the odd dissatisfaction of having been cleared out without the satisfaction of finishing. Another time. Another night. For now Peter pulls back and spits on his palm, kneeling on the bed over Elias and bracing a hand by the side of his head. He’s still dressed, trousers flapping open where the fly is undone, where he’s pulled out his cock and is pressing it between Elias’ cheeks. 

“Any port in a storm,” he says cheerfully, largely to assuage any lingering doubts. If Elias _is_ awake then surely a comment like that will drive him into exasperated, eye-rolling petulance, have him twisting and huffing and making all manner of acerbic comments. Not a word. Elias slumbers on and Peter shrugs and presses into him, biting his lip against a groan at the clutching, greedy heat of Elias’ body as it engulfs him inch by inch. It’s a little like being consumed, sometimes. 

The sound of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the dignified silence of Elias’ bedroom, the huff of Peter’s breath as he pulls out, pushes in, adjusts the position of his legs and makes room for himself. Elias’ pyjama top is rucked to halfway up his back now, sprawled and inelegant, his hair a little mussed where he’s shifted from his side to his front, and there’s something fascinating about seeing him so dishevelled. 

Peter’s seen him covered in bite marks, of course, bound in rope and handcuffs both, bruised and scratched and wrecked, but it’s this—the odd, domestic sight of his pyjamas and the book on the bedside table—that feels most like a desecration. Elias as he is alone, in his own little sanctum. It coils heat in Peter’s belly so hot he can scarcely bear it. As the heat of Elias’ sleeping body soaks into his stiff and salt-cooled muscles wonders whether he might not just melt, just dissipate like fog if Elias looks at him too hard. It’s easier like this. It’s easier if the attention only goes one way. 

Aside from the sound of Peter’s skin on Elias’ and the rustle of the duvet, the creak of the mattress where Peter presses in, pulls out, they’re both silent. The sound of their breaths mingle, Peter’s rough and ragged, Elias’ smoother, calmer, though a little tight now—if Peter looks behind him he can see that Elias is still hard, that his hips are twitching minutely towards Peter’s thrusts. Perhaps there’s a little more tension at his fingertips where he holds onto the duvet and the pillow. Perhaps there’s a little less movement under his closed eyelids. Perhaps. Perhaps. 

Thawing out doesn’t take long once Peter’s back on dry land, and he can feel sweat prickling at his chest and his back and his shoulders under the thick weight of his jumper, uncomfortable and visceral. It cools upon contact with his skin and rises misty and damp around his neck, fog coiling at his fingertips and pouring like water vapour from his lips with each heavy breath punched out of him, each clench and squeeze of Elias’ body. His fingers are digging into Elias’ hip, now, blunt pressure that will leave bruises, but Peter doesn’t have it in him to lessen his grip or pay it much mind, not when the heat is flushing his cheeks and making him groan, quiet and low, like an ice shelf before it breaks under the force of its own weight, shattered from the inside out. 

He pulls out of Elias abruptly and fists his cock, head thrown back as he finishes over Elias’ thighs, his buttocks, the dimples at the base of his spine. He looks a mess, still gaping open a little, and as Peter gathers his breath he admires the sight of his spend against Elias’ pale skin and soaking into the sheets, the way that Elias’ cock is leaking steadily against the bed. 

“Oh, didn’t you finish, dear heart?” he purrs as he re-fastens his belt, shrugging his coat back on and bending to lace his boots. “Pity. Perhaps next time.” Elias, predictably, makes no response, still and silent. Peter wonders what memories he might be reliving in response to stimulus like this, what sights the Eye might be showing him. Best not to speculate, really. 

He tucks the duvet back over Elias’ legs, leaving his pyjama bottoms to the side. His leaving is as quiet as his arrival. 

It’s a few minutes before Elias rolls over in bed, eyelids cracking open to observe the empty room. He rubs his thighs together with an expression of distaste, kicking the covers aside to survey the mess, the wet spot on the bed, the spend drying tacky all over his legs and his sheets, the plug lying abandoned on one side of the mattress. His inner thigh is throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and he knows without looking that come the morning there'll be a purple circle there, teethmarks punched into him for days to come.

“Brute,” he mutters, and with an aggrieved sigh reaches down to take himself in hand. He’s well-accustomed by now to tying up Peter’s loose ends and clearing up his mess; he’ll find some suitable recompense next time they circle back to one another. 


End file.
